


Diurnal Dreaming #1: The Deal

by maven



Series: Diurnal Dreaming [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maven/pseuds/maven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance discovery leads to a change in attitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diurnal Dreaming #1: The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> This series is mainly canon up to the end of Season 5. Everything after that is in the vague realm of "didn't happen"... sort of like the sequels to the Matrix and Star Wars 1-3.

The trouble with Grissom as a supervisor -okay one of the many problems with Grissom as a supervisor- is that knocking on his office door is just an announcement. Knock, knock, walk in, hey Griss I need the file on the Blackburn case.

Actually, that's not the problem. The problem is that it trains you to do the same thing with other offices. Other offices who have owners who seem to think that a knock is asking permission and you should stay on your side of the door until it's granted. Case in point: Swing Shift Supervisor Catherine Willows.

"Hey, Catherine, I need the file on. . . Holy Christ, what are you doing?"

What she was doing was obvious. Three lines of white powder, a credit card and a half full baggie of more white powder.

"Shut the door," she said harshly.

I did so, leaning back against it.

"Lock it."

"Little late for that," I mutter, earning a dark look but I lock the door anyway.

She sighed and scraped the lines into one pile before picking up the acetate sheet it was sitting on and pouring the whole thing into the baggie. Silently she applied a fresh evidence seal, signed and dated it.

"Sit down, Sara. Give me a few minutes before you report me."

"Report you?"

"'Duh," she says, sounding incredibly like her daughter.

"You, ah, wanna tell me what I just saw? Or almost saw. Or almost happened but I came in and saw... what?"

"You're the bright and shiny CSI. Process it."

"Suspect had approximately five grams of a substance consistent in appearance to cocaine. Approximately one gram was in three lines on an acetate sheet, presumably used to protect the desk from trace. The acetate sheet should show trace amounts of the substance as well as fingerprints of the suspect. The same holds true for the credit card used to divide the substance. Suspect shows no apparent sign of usage."

"Very good. If you don't eat your gun or commit suicide by cop..."

"Hey. My therapist would say this is about you, not me. Don't make it about me."

"Therapist?"

"Not about me," I repeat.

"Fine," she said, scrubbing her face in a motion that ends with her staring at a point in space somewhere over my left shoulder. "Which rumours have you about me?" she asked.

"I don't listen to rumours."

"Yeah, right."

"No, seriously. Or maybe people just don't tell me."

"That I believe. No offense," she added quickly when I glared. "I used to be a stripper. I used to be a coke addict."

"Used to?"

"Am. My name is Catherine Willows and I'm a coke addict."

I like to think I'm a good judge of character. "Catherine, you don't act like a coke addict."

"Clean and sober since before Lindsey was born. Well, mostly sober."

"Did, ah, something happen today?" I ask suddenly. "A case? One of the guys? Oh, my God, Lindsey?"

She makes negative motions with her hands. "No, no, no," she says. "I'm an addict. I don't need a reason," she said with a slight smile that abruptly disappeared. "You going to report me now?"

"Answer one question first."

"Sure."

"And you have to answer honestly. Swear it."

"I swear," she assures me, more amused than serious.

"Have you ever tampered with the evidence before?"

"No," she says sharply. "I wasn't tampering. I was testing."

"Testing the coke?"

"Testing me."

"What?"

"I was testing me. It's a crime lab. We get in kilos and kilos of this shit. And every now and then I test myself. See if I'm stronger than it."

"And are you? You had lines there, Catherine."

"Ah baby," she almost purred. "Some days I have the dollar bill all rolled up." She waved the thought away with a quick gesture. "Today I'm much stronger than it. Now, you going to report me?"

"No," I said. "Make you a deal. Gimme a dollar."

She looked at me as if I'm insane. Not a new look around the lab but she gave me one from her wallet. I grabbed a Jiffy marker and write "Catherine's" across the front, fold it twice and slip it behind my ID.

"Here's the deal. Test yourself all you want. But if you get to the point where you're wanting to roll up the bill, you come get this one and we'll talk."

She stared at me in disbelief for about twenty seconds before she nodded. "One condition. Give me your gun."

I suppose I should have thought twice, hell, maybe once, but I pulled it from my belt and hand it over. She ejected the clip, checking the chamber before sliding one round from the magazine. Taking the Jiffy marker she wrote four letters across the brass.

"Here's the deal," she said. She handed the pistol and the clip back to me before tucking the bullet into her change purse. "You want to use that for anything but self defense, you come get this one and we'll talk."

I myriad of emotions hit me starting with bewildered and staying slightly into the mortification and anger spectrum but, mainly, bewildered and confused. She smiled at me and I found myself smiling back and an almost uncomfortable silence fills the room. I spot the Blackburn file and point to it. She nods.

"Next time," I said, file in hand, "I'll knock first."

"Don't worry. My door's always open to you."

THE END


End file.
